Yesterday, took Dig to Oxford for his appointment with the Big Machine.
To be scanned, Dig becomes (temporarily) radioactive and is laid on a flatbed to be scrutinised in 3D, good to every molecule. I bet, one day, they will be able to knock out a fully-functioning 3D-printed clone at the close of procedure, such is the miraculous advancement of medical science.
Afterwards (I went off hunting Oliver Cromwell Gin in Aldi), Dig told me this whole-body scan procedure was very dignified, as he had to remove only half his trousers, and the staff do offer a towel to defend his modesty.
I think there is probably nothing more dignified than a man with his trousers round his ankles clutching desperately at a thin towel while radioactive (no hugging pregnant women, small children or pet furry animals), so I shared with him with the dignity that will soon be mine, aka the cervical smear, when someone shoves a pincer up my doodah and I try and not punch the nurse in the face. Such is marriage! We can regard each other through these most intimate of moments!
Anyway, this scan was the second attempt. The first attempt (Monday) was cancelled due to the radioactive juice not meeting quality standards. And today (Thursday) Dig is having some drainage pumping system installed. Also (this week) was a scrutiny of the throat; a minor pokeabout which now feels so routine a procedure I don't know why we can't all have it while standing in queues for taxis or buses or entrances to museums.
I know I said (last week) that it's not all hospitals, but this week, it is.
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